Keep Smilin'
by Comp Ninja
Summary: My take on how the Joker got started. After enduring a hellish stay in Blackgate for attempting to steal the company payroll of Axis Chemicals, Jack escapes and visits his murderous brand of comedy onto everyone who knows the man behind the makeup.


Disclaimer: I do not own "Batman Begins" or its characters.

**Keep Smilin'**

"Keep smilin'."

The guys at Blackgate always said that during his auditions. They threatened to kill him if he ever stopped smiling. The one time he let the slightest hint of a frown emerge on his face, Rafael Belmonte Molina carved a permanent smile onto his head with a shiv. Those who valued their lives called him by his street name: "Murciélago."

No one bothered to learn his real name. His position on the hierarchy made such details irrelevant. Everyone just called him Jack. Even he began to call himself that. He started to think of himself by that name. "Jack" shielded him from the horrors of his own life.

Somewhere along the line, Jack lost his mind. He went to jail for trying to steal the company payroll of Axis Chemicals. Whitney Ellsworth, night security, shot him. Jack wore a ballistic vest that night. If he knew what the future had in store for him, he would have left it at home.

During the altercation, he accidentally knocked Whitney into a vat of chemical waste. Whitney held on for seven days in ICU and died from severe acid burns. Jack got locked up for trespassing, breaking and entering, attempted robbery and involuntary manslaughter.

Jack's wife, the light of his life, the apple of his eye and the grit in his coffee, had married him for his money. Before he quit his job at Axis Chemicals to pursue his boyhood dream, he pulled down a six-figure salary. His wife divorced him, took their baby boy, married a yuppie and moved out to Metropolis to start a new life.

All the while, he rotted in Blackgate Penitentiary, the East Coast Alcatraz. A failed comedian with an IQ off the charts, the boys knew fresh meat when they saw it. It didn't even matter how Jack fought back. Four men would gang up on him just to force an audition out of him.

Jack made only one friend during his time at Blackgate. The child of illegal immigrants from Santa Prisca, he got tried as an adult for murder at the age of six. No one knew his real name. Anyone who asked gambled with their lives. He seemed a nice enough guy for someone who literally grew up in here. He owned a teddy bear named Osito.

During the breaks, his friend would lift weights and talk about his two favorite subjects: revenge and lucha libre. His father had killed his mother. He framed his own son. Enough said.

As for lucha libre, he found the colorful characters enthralling. He especially loved Bane. A Santa Priscan legend from before his time, Bane had everything. A masked wrestler of the first degree, Bane had an aura of mystery. One day, he would have everything he had. Then people would show him the same kind of respect. On the inside, people lived and died by their reputations.

A rare treat to meet an intellectual equal, the two had long conversations about subjects he couldn't discuss with anyone else. For a whole year, no one dared lay a finger on him lest they enrage his muscle-bound pal. For a while, he actually felt happy and relieved. Perhaps, he thought, he might keep his sanity after all.

When his friend got volunteered for an early-release program, the auditions continued as scheduled. A year without his comedy had made them restless. They wanted to make up for lost time. After that, every audition opened with "What happened to your homosexual boyfriend?"

The prison guards didn't do anything but watch. As far as they cared, these criminals got what they deserved. The inmates had him doing seven shows a week. They didn't even wait for the stitches to close his wounds anymore. Only a matter of time before he cracked.

Two barrel-chested prison guards, a black guy and a white guy, both named Robinson, made it a point to watch his shows during their shift. They loved to watch the criminals hurt each other. Once, the two Robinsons came in after an exhausting audition and flicked two Joker cards at his face. "Keep 'em, Jack. They suit you." They laughed. They always laughed. Like hyenas. Their laughter. He would remember their laughter for as long as he lived.

Everyone would have a theory. Some say that his auditions caused posttraumatic stress coupled with conversion hysteria. Others suggested that complications from the venereal diseases he contracted damaged his brain tissue.

Jack had a simpler explanation derived from German philosophy. Nietzsche said that, in the ultimate summation of life, one either got the joke or didn't. Laugh or remain silent. He chose to laugh.

If they wanted a clown, he'd give them a clown. A quartet of tattooed men approached him in the weight room on the day after his breakthrough (and breakdown). Murciélago's gang always got the best auditions out of him. "C'mon, ese. Gimme another show. I got your opening act right here."

Murciélago's fellow MS-13 inmates circled around him. As he reached into his pants, the clown saw his opportunity. He bit into his neck like a vampire. The others attacked but he simply spit blood in their faces. One got his kneecap reversed. The other lost an eye. The third lost all his teeth and choked to death under unspeakable circumstances.

Murciélago, still alive, reached for his shiv. Tearing his clothes with his own shiv, he saw the tattoo across his chest. A black bat. He carved a smiley face over it. "Have a nice day, Rafe."

He hung the naked corpse of Rafael Belmonte Molina by his neck from a railing where everyone could see it. His clothes made a superb hangman's noose. He had only one regret. He killed him too fast. He deserved to suffer.

Finally convinced they had a job to do, the prison locked him away in solitary confinement. It didn't matter. Unleashing his pent-up rage had cleared his mind. He could see a million and one ways to escape his cell, all ending with people dying. Eventually, he got bored and decided to leave. He might as well as have just walked out of his cell.

The prison guards, Robinson and Robinson, wisely decided to change their names and move to other states. He caught up with the black Robinson in Detroit. A ladies' man, he had already dated quite a few women by the time he showed up. Not knowing which one he loved the most; he erred on the side of caution and killed them all.

He found the white Robinson living on an ostrich ranch in Sedona. He had a wife, three daughters and a lot of ugly flightless birds. Robinson had owned a Colt Peacemaker. It only made sense to use the gun he owned for self-defense to murder his family. He then practiced with it for days on moving targets until he ran out of ostriches.

Learning how to fire a gun brought to mind a problem with his last string of gags. His comedy had gotten too high-brow. Too many elaborate set-ups. He needed to brush up on his one-liners. From now on, he would only use his A material on a select few. The rest would get the ostrich treatment. Quick, clean and through the head.

The next three years went by like a blur. To start his new life, the Joker as he now called himself needed to destroy all trace of his old one. He tracked down his ex-wife, son and her new husband (Bob). He threw them out the window of their penthouse apartment. Even in Metropolis, people could still fall to their deaths.

The Joker hunted down anyone that knew of his existence. To hide his face, he donned a red hood. All in all, he killed somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred people. Eventually, he had only casual acquaintances left to slaughter. After a while, he got bored and started killing anyone who looked even remotely familiar.

Only one person escaped this ruthless purging of his past, an anonymous Santa Priscan built like a Sherman tank. He showed him friendship during a time when he had only admirers.

Then, starvation set in. Starting a new life required a buttload of money. He considered a career as a hitman. He killed so many people already, why not get paid for it? Still, he might lack that element of subtle discretion clients looked for in an assassin.

Inspiration came while watching movies in a video rental store. He had Julius Schwartz, a clerk, tied up in the back room. His life depended on _Howard the Duck_ and George Lucas let him down.

He shot him and picked out another movie. Watching _Bonnie and Clyde_, he realized he had a repertoire of violence under his belt. What would stop him from honing his skills to rob banks?

Still, robbing banks would demand decent hardware. Not just the run-of-the-mill AK-47s and hand grenades. He needed an engineering genius to help build his arsenal. Then one day, he had the good fortune to swipe a copy of the Gotham Herald from a recently deceased newsstand owner. He read about an inventor at Wayne Enterprises named Melvin Reipan placed on suicide watch after attempting to overdose on sleeping pills.

Melvin Reipan stated in the article that he would kill for a sense of purpose. To the Joker, that sounded an awful lot like an invitation. He killed the suicide watch in ways that looked like suicides. The Joker always took the time to try new material. "How would you like to help an entrepreneur make lots of money in a short period of time?"

Initially shocked by how callously he inflicted death on others, Melvin Reipan got used to working for a complete psycho. The big fat dope bought the long lost cousin bit hook, line and sinker. He even wore the clown outfit for him. The Joker took it one step further. He painted his skin bone-white and dyed his hair green.

Throw in ruby-red lipstick to compliment his smiling scar, the Joker, before just a creation in his head, had sprung to life. Melvin celebrated the occasion by showing him his first invention. "Pull the trigger once, it fires a BANG! sign like a fake gun." A weak first entry. "Pull the trigger a second time; it ejects the sign as a harpoon."

The Joker patted Melvin on the head. "Excellent work, Melvin. But I need something else. Something that will fill the world with the same joy I feel inside." It took Melvin a few tries. First, Melvin developed an acid-squirting lapel. "Not enough." Electrocution joy buzzer. "Still not enough." He put his fingers to his temples. "What do we need?"

At last, Melvin arrived at the keyhole invention, the centerpiece of his criminal equipment. The binary compound caused laughter so uncontrollable the afflicted can't even pause to breathe. End result: They asphyxiated to death, rigor mortis fixing permanent grins on their dead faces.

"Perfect, Melvin. Perfect. Now, you have all the papers I requested." He requested Melvin to make design specs so easy to follow a monkey could duplicate his results. In one fell swoop, Melvin made himself obsolete. The Joker reached for the harpoon gun and did the obvious. For a supposed genius, Melvin never saw it coming.

At the high security doors to the Gotham First National Bank, the Joker straightened his bowtie. He ditched the baggy pants and floppy shoes after they slowed his escape during his first attempted bank robbery. The clumsy costume cost him his freedom. Besides, he found the purple tuxedo and matching overcoat contrasted perfectly with his ghoulish appearance.

Fortunately, his apparent insanity guaranteed that he would never see the inside of a jail cell. The good people of Gotham had no choice but to remand him to Arkham Asylum. He could have escaped any time he wanted but Dr. Crane's "therapy" further loosened his precarious grip on reality. The Joker and his buddies managed to escape during the Narrows Performance.

Shortly afterwards, he got a job offer from Sal Maroni, the man who owned the other half of Gotham. The mafia, made a laughingstock by their defeat at the hands of a grown man dressed like a bat, worked out an arrangement with the Joker.

He robbed banks to lure the Batman. They provided him with muscle. It worked out fine. Sal Maroni even let him dress them in clown masks. He found the Richard Nixon masks a tad clichéd.

One of Sal's goons had a problem with taking orders from a clown. "Ever heard of a Cuban necktie?" For a man so well versed in violence, he hadn't. "No? I'll show you." He satisfied the man's curiosity by making one for his friend.

Two security guards at the door, a white guy and a black guy, smirked at him. "I didn't know the circus was in town." The laughter of the two men brought back memories. Before prison had broken his brain, he used to find those memories unnerving, a prime example of man's inhumanity to man.

Now, with a fresh new outlook on life, he found them rather amusing. Almost funny. Almost. He looked at the two men. "That's right, gentlemen. Big smiles. I wouldn't have it any other way." If what he did to these security guards didn't get the Batman's attention, nothing would.

"Keep smilin'."

**The End**


End file.
